Now in the night I wake to it: plucking of a cello string, low hoot of wind in a deep cave, song of wrongness sounding, sounding. The hand is unmarred to look at, paragon of itself, sweet in sleep as …

I am trying to throw things away. Say, these two cups, his always green, mine always blue, in the long dark the two of us, me stacked inside him, or him stacked inside me. I fear they’d shatter now on …

Late at night, in the rain I drove to the end of the quay, past the frosted lights of the refinery, its single outlet flame streaming in the wind like a pennant. Between the hulking dark of the shipbuilders and …